


Free Association

by Run_away_with_me



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Run_away_with_me/pseuds/Run_away_with_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla goes to therapy. It’s gonna be Carm being sassy and saying whatever she wants because she doesn’t care. Expect lots of funtastic philosophy references and Hollstein.</p>
<p>I’m not going to dwell on clinical things. However, if you have misgivings about references to depression and emotional trauma, then this might not be right for you and by all means take care of yourself!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Condensation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably not the first to do this, but no regrets.

Ah therapy, we meet again. These off-beige walls and closet-sized offices really do it for me.

I’m enchanted to make your acquaintance, Doc. Really just so excited to try out this cool quasi-psychoanalysis thing where I tell you, a total stranger, and heterosexual to boot, my most traumatizing feelings. Positively fucking overjoyed for yet another middle-aged man playing God to dissect my deeply painful past in excruciating detail using the theories dreamed up by… you guessed it! More middle-aged men playing God, except this time from a hundred years ago! You come highly recommended, but kind sir, this is not my first time at the rodeo.

Whatever. Despite my reservations, I will try to give you the benefit of the doubt.

I would imagine you are wondering how my 21-year-old life got this fucked up. Let me know if you come up with something original— in all seriousness, I could use all the help I can get. Personally, I like to attribute the majority of my dysfunction to this tragic little town. Really, a college town that’s almost totally surrounded by water has extraordinary potential— at the very least, it should easily avoid the more uninspired visuals of consumerism. But campus consists of about three buildings, and off-campus civilization features this picturesque expanse of strip malls. This is what happens when we elect politicians with daddy issues and no vision.

It’s my own fault I’m being subjected to this. I should have kept my mouth shut and played along with Mother’s archaic expectations for my behavior. Although the college here is fairly progressive, the town— lamentably— is not. Going out at all hours of the night and growing a bit too close to the neighbor’s daughter across the street can get people talking, apparently. So, here’s to another year of commuting to school from home so Mother can “keep an eye out” (punish me for shaming the family name). In any case, going to a different institution would have been a long shot, with Mother being the Dean at Silas. It’s not the tuition, although that is a nice perk of remaining here. She’s just dictatorial at heart, and keeping my brother and me close by permits her to indulge this charming attribute.

It doesn’t matter. I have one year until I graduate and can escape the mobs of nitwits whose only goals in life revolve around hooking up with the “opposite sex,” whatever that means. Maybe there will be at least some cute girls I can waste my time with in the interim.

Not that you actually care about my prosaic woes. For 250 big ones an hour, I would put up with monotonous angst too. Don’t hold me to that. Don’t get your hopes up, either— if you think I’m going to imprint on you or whatever it is that psych patients are supposed to do in therapy, think again. I don’t swing that way, and besides, Freud is much more interesting in theory than in practice. I haven’t dreamed in years, so I must regretfully dash any ideas you had there as well.

And it’s Carmilla, not Carmen. Sir.

Are we done for the day?


	2. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disorderly philosophy references oops

Well well, we meet again. What a delight.

How was my day… how was… my day. How was my day? 

Depends on what you mean by “how.” As in, was it good or bad? Depends. Good or bad for… my future prospects as a contributing member of society? My emotional health? My existential irresolution? 

That doesn’t even make sense! Good and bad are asinine, Doc. Life means more to me than good and bad.

Perhaps you mean “how” as in, by whose terms did my day go today? Definitely not by my terms. I started my senior year this week, and frankly I could do without the interruption to my sleep. I’m taking 18 credit hours, and I have a huge reading list. Joy. I detest the analytic school of thought, so hopefully my professors won’t sneak any in under the radar. I prefer to actually use my brain when I’m pondering the nature of being and nothingness.

In any case, my day was nothing if not interesting. All things considered. I’ve always thought Silas to be a (mildly fascinating) bastion of nastiness and repression— not even can the liberal arts rectify the primordial maladjustment of wealthy brats at a private school. However, this place is getting gayer by the day. At least five girls intentionally hit on me before noon, and as of yet (most of) the male population seems to be minding its own business. 

Maybe this year won’t be so bad.

Classes were tedious, but the professors mostly left us alone and none of them forced us to talk about ourselves or our tragic backstories to break the ice. My (ginger) Bio lab partner seems competent, and not big on small talk either. They were pretty preoccupied with some girl (also ginger) across from us. Clearly, Silas’s redhead problem is still in full swing. They didn’t ask me any invasive questions, did their fair share of the work, and knew enough to fix the mistakes they caught at the end of the project. Which is more than I can say for myself. I must have lucked out. Perhaps surviving this awfully slippery gen ed requirement won’t be such a monumental vexation.

Their name is…LaFon-something? I’m terrible with names. Whatever. LaFonbrain. 

Some idiot junior tried to chat me up in “Critical Approaches to Mass Media,” but after he called me “Carm-sexy,” suffice to say he won’t make that mistake again. He is exactly like a puppy dog. Harmless, but over-enthused and not the brightest bulb. He’d do well to keep his distance. I saw the girl he was holding hands with on the quad glaring at him after that.

We’re reading Kafka first in German Philosophy. How ironic. I think I will write about his conspicuously homosocial journals for my first paper. That’ll give you something fun for my file.

I don’t do student organizations, so don’t waste your breath. I am already forced to interact with people I hate for too many hours per week, and that’s not including my uncomfortable home life. Mother asked me if I discovered any “promising young men” today. I told her I need a break from men for the time being. What? It wasn’t a lie. Will didn’t buy it (at least someone took the family tussle of 2012 seriously). Not that he can say anything to anyone about it. Puppy dog’s girlfriend wasn’t the only one I caught staring. 

Besides, I am finishing my thesis next semester. I need to do something with my resume if I want to escape this inferno next year. 

To answer your question, my day was fine I suppose. I spent it in the library and managed to avoid interpersonal interaction. I got some work done, so perhaps I can even enjoy my evening after this lovely social hour is over.

That’s all, Doc. Sorry to disappoint. I know they make college out to be some grand adventure on TV and surely also in your weird theories of development, but it’s mostly just troublesome and unstimulating at this point.

Well. There was one interesting aspect of the day I haven’t mentioned. But I shouldn’t fixate. You know how that is, right?


	3. Archaeology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :)

I think the night is my real mother. Not my *real* mother— I’ve got more than enough of that. God, I have enough of that for multiple lifetimes. But it’s so nurturing, you know, the way the nighttime cradles the stars and the galaxies and the stuff we don’t even know exists and all the crap we’ve disallowed from our boring little worlds. Everything the sun can’t hold without burning it out. Everything too big for me to carry. The night carries all of it. The weight of it. The stars are so heavy to hold. I know it’s difficult. It has to be. But the night sky… I don’t know. At night, the universe can _dance_.

God, I’m a nostalgic idiot. This is what happens when I think about my mother for too long. And when I think about girls for too long. Which I’ve been doing a lot this week, unfortunately. Remember my lab partner? Flaming red hair? LaFonbrain? This is what happens when I let my guard down for even a second. Apparently, they’re really on a tight leash with that girl they’re obsessed with. Real June Cleaver type. Somehow I got forced into doing “a little favor” for her. I don’t even know the girl, mind you. I’m just minding my own damn business talking to LaF, and all of a sudden I’m supposed to be helping out some sophomore transfer chick in my mass media class. “Just be nice,” they said. “Just help her feel welcome,” they said.

Fuck. She is exactly like my ex. They have the same name. Doc, I can’t. How am I supposed to survive this?

She’s so fucking peppy. If she smiles any bigger, her face will fall off. And her eyes are positively sparkly. Especially when she’s going on about journalism and the “emerging media.” Which she did. The entire time. I’m really conflicted about the whole event. Who in their right mind would want to be a journalist? I at least strive to cultivate my own perspective. That objectivity bull can shove it. Fucking sparkly eyes and her fucking optimistic outlook and her *fucking* touchy feely habits.

Damn it. How the hell did she even know who I am? Fucking LaF. Fucking June Cleaver.

I really am God awful at relationships. I just don’t see the point in them. Why would I waste my time trying to fill some needy girl’s void? God! I’m a fucking human being, not a detail to accumulate to complete someone’s fucked up image of the perfect life. Or even worse, to _be_ someone else’s _whole fucking life_. I have my own damn life! I don’t want to ever be defined by someone else. I hate that. I can’t do it, Doc. I really can’t.

This has absolutely nothing to do with Cupcake. I don’t even know why I brought it up.

Whatever. I’m not playing whatever game this is with her. Maybe she’ll leave me alone if I just ignore her. Or piss her off. I’ve had enough straight girls to last me the rest of my life, and I don’t intend to regress when I've come this far. The incessant chatter alone is enough to warrant a transfer right the fuck out of this class. The questions too. The cupcake is perfect for journalism. Nosy. She’ll fit right in.

Never again will I trust a professor. We have to do a project on the pros and cons of the democratization of information pathways via social media, and guess who I’m stuck with. At least it’s not Will and his little boyfriend. If I just keep my distance, it’ll be fine. I’ve got more important things to do. Like the girl in the Kafka class. Much better and less annoying way to spend my semester.

I can do this. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are going to get longer in the near future.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think??!!
> 
> Update: this is all first person pov. Carmilla is the only speaker!


End file.
